By Melissa

Talking about my experiences with cutting has always been a tricky subject. I've always wanted to speak out, to tell my story, to raise awareness, but at the same time, I felt uncomfortable and nervous, worrying that others would judge me or write me off as being "emo." But I'm writing about it now because I want you all to know; I need you to know that you are not alone.

I had a happy childhood with a loving, stable nuclear family. There was no abuse nor trauma. But as I later learned, there was a long family history of depression. I was about 13 years old when my depression began. There was no particular trigger. Out of nowhere, I was miserable. Crying myself to sleep, if I slept at all. I became shy and nervous where I had once been outgoing and friendly. I was also paranoid that none of my friends actually liked me or wanted me around. These feelings scared me, and I was the one who insisted on therapy since I felt like drowning on a daily basis. My mother was unconvinced about therapy and believed we could fix it on our own.

I can't tell you when I first hurt myself or what had caused that particular bout of depression, but I remember the moment clearly. I was sitting at my desk in my bedroom and the razor in my hand had three blades, no safety strip. I was scared, afraid that cutting would hurt, that I would regret it. But even after I had bandaged up my thigh, I felt relieved. I wandered throughout the house with a smile.

I told my friends what I had done. I think deep down, I knew what would happen, though I swore them to secrecy. They told the guidance counselor, who in turn told my parents. My father pulled me out of school and took me to see a therapist. When I got home, new rules were put in place. Razors were hidden. I wasn't allowed to close or lock my bedroom door unless I was changing. All the pills in the house were moved to a secret location. I had to shave with an electric razor. These changes were made in an attempt to stop me from cutting again.

But it didn't work. I found ways around the rules; razors that hadn't been hidden well. Scissors. Knives. It was too easy to cut. But I promised myself to cut only on my thighs, where it was easy to hide, but I easily broke that promise and cut on my stomach, breasts, chest, and upper arms.

They started me on an anti-depressant, but the medication didn't help. I began having these "visions" of my suicide. I'd pictured myself pouring a huge bottle of pills into my hand, knowing that I had the intention of dying. I'd see myself holding a blade over my wrist. These images terrified me and made me hysterical. I felt like I was going insane. My life as out of control. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't want to kill myself, but I recall writing once, "I don't want to die; I'm just not sure I want to live." I was spiraling further down and I was just so terrified of what I might do to myself.

Many times when I looked in a mirror, I would see this horrible creature: a fat, ugly girl, with blood-shot eyes and scars and cuts all over her body. I would always see myself in a shattered mirror. No matter how many times I looked, the mirror was always broken and could not show me my true reflection. It was always distorted.

I talked to other cutters about why they self-injure, and it's different for everyone. For me, cutting was a way of calming down. In the midst of hysteria, if I focused on cutting, I wouldn't hurt anymore. And eventually, cutting became an addiction. I didn't need to be depressed to cut. I would just want it. And need it.

Over the years, I went through periods of time in which I would not cut, but a trigger always brought me back to it. And as the years progressed, my cutting got worse. I would cut deeper and more often. The scars lasted longer, and eventually they stopped fading. I can no longer count the number of self-inflicted marks on my body.

I was in therapy and on medication for 4 years; I started cutting when I was 12 years old and I'm 22 now. The last time I took a blade to my body, I was 18 years old. Cutting was a part of me. It became a coping mechanism that was instinctual for me. Even now, there are days when I have breakdowns and days when I feel like I am drowning, and the only conceivable way out is to cut. I have taken razors apart and held them to my arm since the temptation has never gone away for me. Even though I no longer consider myself depressed, there are times when it takes every ounce of strength in me to not cut.

But I have that strength--that's what I have learned over the years. I have laid on the ground, sobbing hysterically, knowing that if I cut, the pain would stop, and I have resisted. I ride those waves out every time, because I know I am strong. Afraid that I might one day forget, I had my brother design a tattoo to symbolize my strength. It sits on my hip among countless of self-inflicted scars, to remind me of my strength when all I feel is my weakness.

Please believe me when I say this: you are strong too. You are strong, and you are worth so much more than you give yourself credit for. Even though it may seem hopeless and dark, I promise you it isn't. There is so much more to the world than the pain you are feeling now. There is opportunity and joy, and there is so much beauty. You can't always see it, but I swear, it's there.

For those of you who are the friends or family of someone who self-injures, try to be understanding. The best thing you can do is be there. Hold their hands. Let them cry. Don't push them or make them feel guilty. Ask questions, show that you care.

For those of you who hurt yourselves - I wish I could tell you the magic secret to stop cutting, but I can't because there isn't one. From experience, I know that begging you not to hurt yourself will not work. Instead, I'll ask you to try to better your situation. Throw yourself into life. Get involved in activities, in sports, in your community. Surround yourself with people who love you, people who care about you, and people wh can make you laugh. And if you get the urge to hurt yourself, try something else. Try to call someone, as hard and scary as that sounds. Draw or write out your emotions, even if it's just scribbling in red ink. Do whatever it takes. Ride out the wave of depression, and know that eventually it will pass. Because it will pass.

Above all, ask for help. You don't have to face this alone. The people who love you will help you through this. Asking for help is not a weakness.

Fighting this battle won't be easy, and I can't promise you that will ever truly end, because even today, I still struggle. But what I can promise is that the fight is worth it. It is so worth it. I look back over my life, and I am so grateful to be alive today, to have experienced all the beautiful, wonderful things I have seen and done. Even the bad things.

I broke a lot of promises when I cut, but believe this promise: if you ever feel alone, like there is no hope, like no one cares and no one will miss you, I promise that you are wrong. Because I care and I understand. I fought your battle, and I survived. You will too.

Love always,

Melissa

At Elsie Allen Health Center, we have 2 mental health providers who can help you stop cutting, and offer therapy sessions. For more information, check out EAHC’s About Us. Or give us a call at 707-528-5770 to schedule an appointment.

For more resources, please check out:

S.A.F.E Alternative

Teen Line: Teens helping teens

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